To Change Fate
by AmericanMadeInChina
Summary: Living with the scars of conflicts is hard. Living with the scars of conflicts with someone you love is harder. Though, maybe if England changes the way his war with a rebellious America ends, those scars will be healed. But...what if it makes those scars bleed once again? {UKUS/USUK FANFIC}
1. Chapter 1

There England ended up again for yet another Independence Day party. In other words, America's birthday party.

In truth, the parties brought back memories England wanted so desperately to forget. But despite his depression and discomfort at the parties, it would be incredibly rude to blow off the American's "special day". It wasn't of a gentleman to be so selfish.

The blond Brit brought his leg up over the other and rested one of his arms on the arm of the chair he was sitting on, and put the other on top of his leg. His emerald eyes settled on America as the other male watched Japan put candles that were shaped into the numbers 2, 3, and 8 on the cake and lit them with a match. "Uno, due, tre~" Italy counted in his native language, preparing everyone to sing _Happy Birthday._

Although England was watching the entire scene, he was confused to what was going on when he heard the sound of rhythmic voices. He raised his head slightly and looked around in confusion. When a the Brit settled his eyes on America and the others once again he calmed down and sighed. _'Oh... It was just them singing.'_

England caught up to what verse they were all on and sang quietly, letting everyone else's voices block out his own. While he sang, England kept thinking about what always wondered in his mind on July fourth. That unforgettable day that his former little brother became a nation. The Englishman's thoughts lingered after everyone finished singing and began cutting the cake.

_'Damn...if I could restart it all...'_ England thought. In truth, England loved America in more ways than one, despite his constant hate acts shown towards the blonde. Maybe it was a way to show his affection? No. It was just that America was a complete twit. But still, that didn't mean England hated him. He didn't hate him at all. He just hated how oblivious he could be. Hell, he liked that too. How pathetic of him. Even if he didn't want to love the American, he wouldn't be able to do something about it.

It hurt like hell knowing he didn't feel the same way. Or even feel anything for him as brothers anymore. _'But what happened is in the past. There's nothing I can do.' _England told himself, sighing sadly. England's eyes then widened at the idea that popped into his mind. _'Or...is there something I can do?' _The Brit was surprised he had not thought of this earlier.

.

~~{—}~~

.

England waited until after the celebration to carry out his plan. He eagerly ran back to his hotel room.

Once in the privacy of his room, England closed the curtains and opened his suitcase to retrieve his "Book Of Spells". The Brit flipped through the pages until he came to a page with the spell he was searching for. He had never used this spell, he found no need for it. Luckily, England studied all the spells in the book if not performed them. So he knew most of the effects. Despite that fact, England read through it again.

The name of the spell was simply '_Time Reverse' _when it was translated into English from Latin. Under it read:

_'This spell shall bring thou to or from whatever time one wishes. Be it forward in time or backwards in time.'_

England remembered the details of the spell that weren't mentioned in the book. _'When you preform the spell, your body in the current time goes unconscious...and your soul takes over the body of the you in the time you want to go to...' _England thought, trying to remember all that would happen.

England looked down below the section he previously read, and scanned over the words he was supposed to recite. He prepared to say the Latin words. After he read over them twice, he chanted,

"Tollite me, ut tempora. Fatum posse mutari, ut, quo tempore. Tollite me, ut MDCVII!"

Shortly after the words were spoken, a bright purplish-white light appeared in the center of the room. After a few seconds, the unidentified light shifted into a thin oval and floated above the floor. But this light wasn't merely a light, it was a portal. A portal to 1607. When England began colonizing and raising America.

The Englishman smiled at the memories he shared with his little America. However, his smile disappeared when the Revolution flashed through his mind. His lips quivered and tears dared to break out of their barrier as England remembered pointing the bayonet of his musket at America's forehead, threatening the American that remained seemingly fearless. England growled in both agony and anger. Seconds later, the Brit held his fire as he lowered the musket. He fell to the ground, and cried.

The memories made a single tear escape from England's emerald eye. He quickly wiped the salty, clear liquid from his cheek and sighed shakily. _'I don't have to cry. I'll make this right.'_ the European nation thought, trying to assure himself he was telling the truth.

Taking a deep breath, England took a step towards the portal and stuck his hand in the light. As he stood there, he began to feel light-headed. England collapsed on the floor as black spots began to cloud up his vision.

.

~~{—}~~

.

England didn't know how long he was unconscious. All he knew was that he sure wasn't in 2014 anymore.

The Briton didn't know that right away, though, seeing as he awoke in his normal bed. England rubbed his eyes and yawned. "A dream...?" he mumbled, both disappointment and confusion in his voice. England sighed. He shifted in his bed and stood up. When he looked to check the time, he saw something on a shelf that he didn't recognize. Then he remembered owning it before. It was his old, fine china tea set he had lost a few centuries ago. When he was taking care of Ameri-

There was a light knock on the door. "England? You awake? May I come in?" a somewhat sleepy, boyish voice asked.

The Englishman tried to register whose voice it was, but after a few seconds, his heart skipped multiple beats. England felt lightheaded once the organ had begun to beat normally once again. It must have been roughly thirty seconds before he answered. "Y-Yeah. You can come in." England stuttered, his heart pounding faster as he said each word.

The door opened and allowed the European nation to see America. Little colony America. Despite the obvious difference between America when he was merely made up of a few colonies and America in the 2000s, England didn't see a difference between the two. It was still America. No, _his _America. But one thing was different. This time, England would have his little America grow to love him as he loved him, instead of hate him.

Tears of joy that had slowly welled up in England's eyes were released. "A-America..." England trailed off. He lunged towards the boy and embraced him. Arms wrapped securely around the American, England placed his chin on America's head. The somewhat identical strands of blond and the single cowlick tickled England's neck, as if asking him to give them attention. The Briton gladly replied by rubbing his nose against America's scalp, breathing in his scent. It didn't smell like the America from 2014 that smelled of burgers and soda, but there was one thing that smelled the same about the two.

Silent for awhile, America was extremely confused at the older nation's sudden action. "Huh? England?" he asked awkwardly, not really knowing what else to say.

England just tightened his grip and passionately murmured America's name again.

"What's wrong?" America questioned.

"I-I..," Before England could finish his sentence, he remembered that he had traveled back in time and the America before him knew nothing of this. The Brit gently pushed away from the blond lad. "I-I'm sorry. I just had a bad dream." England lied. He grinned sheepishly and rubbed the back of his neck.

America looked up at the other with childish curiosity shining in his eyes. "What happened in the dream?" he asked in a whisper.

England just looked into the young American's sapphire eyes that shone like the gem itself. He thought of how to reply. "In the dream..," England's voice cracked a bit. "You left me." The Briton's voice was barely audible, but being right in front of America, the other could hear him properly. America stared back into England's emerald pools. They seemed to be clouded with pure sadness. But it only lasted for a second before the Englishman gently smiled at the other. "But it's just a dream, right?" he asked.

The confused look on America's face turned into a grin. He took hold of one of England's hands and placed it on his own cheek. "Yeah, you worry too much, y'know that?" America chuckled. He intertwined his fingers with the hand on his cheek and let his grin soften. "I won't leave, England." he assured him. "So don't worry, okay?"

He wanted to believe the younger male, but England knew that America couldn't live up to that promise on his own. England gently caressed the colonial lad's smooth cheek, keeping the other's hand around his own as their hands moved with synchronized strokes.

England did that for awhile, enjoying the feel of America's warm skin under his fingers. He stopped when he noticed the somber and slightly lonely expression on the other's face. "What's wrong?" the Englishman asked.

"It's just that-" America trailed off for a bit. England was about to speak when America continued. "You haven't really given me this much attention in awhile..." the young American mumbled, averting his gaze from England's. America stared down at the floor, suddenly finding the wooden panels interesting.

The British nation stared at the other in surprise. Had this been one of the reasons America left him? England's head was buzzing with questions, but that question was the one that remained surfaced in his mind. The Briton's mind was terribly confused and stressed, but England's expression remained nonchalant.

England smiled softly and brushed his fingers against the colonial child's cheek. "It's just that I've been busy lately." he said. America hesitantly looked back up at the other. England sighed and said, "And you think _I _worry too much!"

America chuckled and grinned sheepishly. "Sorry. I guess I can be a worrywart too, huh?"

"We all can, sometimes." England patted America's head. His gaze softened, and seeing this, America's gaze did the same. "America." the Englishman said in order to get America's full attention.

"Hm?" the other asked, curiosity shining in his sapphire eyes.

"If anything is ever troubling you, please tell me."

America seemed surprised at the sudden request, but he nodded slowly. "Okay, England."


	2. Chapter 2

England went to get dressed and then made his way downstairs with America trailing behind him.

Once downstairs, England started making breakfast. America sat patiently at the table and watched as England prepared their breakfast. At first, the Brit looked for the pancake mix*. He mentally face-palmed when he remembered it was the 17th century; you couldn't use pancake mix to make pancakes. He looked around for the ingredients for porridge instead. After finding them, he begun preparing the meal.

The Englishman twirled a spoon around in the large bowl in front of him. It sort of reminded America of the witches in the stories England told him about his supposed "friends". The older nation would tell him about "Flying Mint Bunny" and fairies that would talk to him. Sometimes America questioned England's sanity. But he also questioned his own, because he was having a hard time not believing his European elder.

England turned to face the colonial lad with two plates in his hands. He set his own down and then placed America's in front of the boy. "You were staring at me while I was cooking." the Briton chuckled.

America's cheeks flushed from embarrassment and anger. He pouted. "Was not..." he grumbled.

England was about to scold the boy for pouting and talking back, but once he remembered what had happened earlier that morning, he decided against it.

America's tone of voice changed back to normal once he said, "It's just that I thought of how you looked like one of the witches in the stories you tell me."

The Englishman chuckled and smiled softly at the other. "I present to you, fresh from the cauldron, my evil porridge!" England announced over-dramatically.

America giggled. But he was mostly laughing at the fact that the porridge _was_ evil. England didn't have to know that, though. Not much more was said as the two began consuming the porridge England had prepared.

The bitterly unsatisfying taste spread across America's tongue and invaded his taste buds. The colony's urge to spit out the porridge was beaten down when England asked, "How is it?"

The young American forced a grin and nodded at the elder, swallowing. "It's good!" he said happily, almost over-enthusiastically.

The English nation smiled back at the boy. _'I wish America still liked my cooking...' _he thought to himself as he filled the spoon at his fingers with porridge, completely oblivious to the fact that America was never once fond of his cooking.

England watched as the colony finished off his porridge, all the while finishing his own. After they had finished their meal, England began cleaning the dishes.

"Can I go outside, England?" the American questioned, already pulling his flats on.

Said Englishman nodded before saying, "Make sure to put on your sweater, it's getting chilly out. And don't wander too far," England stood up and walked towards the colonial boy before pushing up his dirty blond strands of hair. He placed a brief kiss on the tan skin of America's forehead and pulled away. "I'd hate for you to get lost."

The colonial nation blushed and nodded, looking away shyly. America backed away from the other and made his way outside.

England held back a chuckle as he watched the younger male slam the screen door behind him. He could tell America was embarrassed by the brotherly act. Well, at least that's what the normal person would call it. To England, however, there was much more to it. That little boy who had just walked out the door was his love interest, as was the older nation that walked the Earth of 2014. America was America, no matter how much he changed politically or physically.

England knew it was wrong lusting over such an under-developed body, but he could wait. He could wait until America was a bit older, until after the revolutionary war. Which America would be losing, because England already knew all of the strategies that would be used against the British. He and the rest of the British soldier would take out every rebel that dared raise their rifle at them. Except his America, of course. He would have no choice but to stop all of his nonsense and to come back to England.

The only real problem England had with his unofficial plan was how to pay for the training, equipment, and new uniforms. If Britain would already have to tax the American colonies in the distant future, then they'd have to tax even more due to the cost of new uniforms, equipment, and training.

_'That doesn't necessarily mean we have to tax the colonies, though...' _the European empire thought to himself while glaring at the bowl he was scrubbing in deep thought. _'Hmm...we could always tax the Irish more...'_

While the Briton finished putting the dishes away into the cabinets, he decided he would discuss it with the king and some of the generals. As much as he hated to admit it, he couldn't come up with everything on his own.

He walked to his office and sat down at his desk. England pulled out a sheet of blank paper and picked up a quill pen, dipping it lightly in the obsidian ink upon the wooden surface.

In his taut and curvy handwriting, he began to scribe:

_**Dear Your Highness...**_

_**"**_Sir, you have a letter from Mr. England!" a messenger boy stood straight and tall at the doorframe of King George's office.

The King's eyes widened a bit at this. "Him sending a letter first? That's abnormal. I hope it's nothing serious." he thought aloud.

The messenger nodded, not quite voicing his actual opinion. "As do I, sir."

Said royal spoke nothing more as he slid his thumb under the envelope's flap, tearing the paper. King George pulled out the second slip of paper that was folded to fit in the envelope.

He unfolded it, revealing England's incredibly recognisable writing. The noble began reading.

_**Dear your highness,**_

_**Forgive me for writing so suddenly, but there has been something on my mind for awhile now... It involves the way our military is run.**_

_**Our soldiers' attire stands out far too much. It is dangerous while in battle. It would be wise to change them. I also have a problem with our strategies. We are trained for battle in an open field, not in the wilderness. These are weaknesses that could possibly lead us to a great defeat.**_

_**Please take my ideas into mind. They are for the sake of our great nation.**_

_**Signed,**_

_**Britain**_

King George stared at the space at the bottom of the paper blankly. The only actions he performed were taking place in his mind.

The messenger that still stood in his original place raised an eyebrow at the King's silence. "Sir? Is something the-" he was cut off mid-sentence.

"Take a letter." he ordered, taking out a quill pen and a sheet of paper.

The messenger stood up straighter at the King's sudden request. "Y-Yes, sir!" he said, acting much like a trained, obedient dog.

George dipped the pen in the ink, and proceeded to write:

_**Dear Britain,**_

_**Your letter to me has made me think. Even as I write this letter, I am pondering how you have managed to come up with such a strange—and yet brilliant**_—_**idea. I am, however, insulted by how orderly you made your letter sound. I appreciate your offer enough to look past your way of expressing it, though. I will speak to our generals of this matter. We will discuss it further, then.**_

_**Signed,**_

_**King George**_

The letter was quite brief and didn't contain many details, but it would give England an answer to his own letter, and that was good enough.

The King neatly folded the letter into three equal parts. He opened a drawer and searched for an envelope. Once he had one in hand, he inserted the paper and finished his preparations by placing a royal seal on the flap, enclosing the letter.

George shoved the envelope towards the messenger boy who was still standing straight and tall near the exit of his office. The man jumped at the suddenness of the action. He just barely caught the letter that he was meant to deliver. "Deliver that to Britain. You know where the man resides, right?" the King inquired, offering the boy a sideways glance and a raised eyebrow.

The messenger regained his posture. "Y-Yes, I do. I will see that the letter is delivered right away!" he assured the King. He didn't offer the King to say another word, as he bolted outside and towards England's house as soon as he finished his sentence. But luckily for him, George didn't have anything left to say.

America was slightly startled by the knocking coming from behind him. He sat on the rug in the living room, drawing a picture of a rabbit he had seen outside. The boy stood and walked toward the source of the pounding. America looked through the window at whoever was on the other side. Seeing it was a messenger, he opened it.

The messenger was the first to greet. "Hello, America. Is Mister England here?" the young man inquired, smiling down at the colony.

"Yeah, he's in his study." the young American replied.

The larger male handed him a piece of paper. America looked at it to see that it was a letter. "Could you pass this to him? It's from the king, so it's important that it gets to him." the messenger explained.

The blond lad nodded. "Okay."

The messenger thanked him, and then was on his way. America closed the door and walked towards England's study, knocking on the door.

"Come in!" the Englishman on the other side shouted.

"You have a letter." America informed him as he entered. Immediately, England was on his feet and snatching the paper from the smaller blonde's hands. He apologised for doing so in such a rude manner.

"It's fine." America assured him with a grin, before leaving the room to resume his colouring.

As soon as he was left alone, England eagerly ripped the envelope open; he knew exactly what its contents were. Once the letter was free of its cage, the European nation began scanning it, skipping quite a few words in the process.

A grin spread across the Briton's face as he finished reading the letter. The first step of his plan was complete, but he wasn't nearly finished. The second step would be in progress after he got back from the trip he was going on starting tomorrow. By then, the king would have spoken to the generals.

As long as he played his cards right, England's mission would be done in no time.


	3. Chapter 3

"Do you have to leave _again_?" America asked with much disappointment in his voice, although he already knew the answer all too well. "You just went on a trip a little while ago..." he complained, though one could not blame him for doing so.

England's smile that was directed towards the younger male was filled with deep pity and sorrow for the other. He kneeled down so that forest green eyes met sky blue ones. The Englishman nodded, raising his hand to stroke America's caramel locks. "Yes, I do, America." he informed the blonde in a whisper.

Said lad pushed his head into England's delicate touch, as if it would keep the hand there longer. His wishes, however, were not granted, for the skinny and scarred digits fled from his mop of hair. America nearly whimpered at the loss of the warmth he adored.

Britain took pity on America and placed his lips on his forehead—an action America would only approve of in this sort of situation—before pulling away altogether. "It won't be that long. I'll be back before you know it." he promised, though the words were hollow.

The colony nodded, and England took that as cue to leave. Bags in hand, the European stepped towards the door. "I'll be back soon, America." He shut the door, leaving both countries to silence.

Britain had never gotten quite used to leaving his young colony while on trips. Though, in present day, he would still go weeks without seeing America. Perhaps it didn't hurt nearly as much because whenever he left present-day America's sight, the man was always smiling.

Several hours later, England sat at a table, surrounded by government officials. The nation sat at one end of the table. He clutched his hands into fists. Suddenly, he felt as a young lad would on the first day at a new school—shaken up and nervous, not at all aware of what would happen next. Despite his edginess, Britain had the nerve to sigh, though it was only audible in his mind. _'It's foolish to feel so nervous...' _he repeatedly told himself. _'I've been doing this for centuries.'_

England bit through the deadly silence by noticeably clearing his throat, directing eyes of all different colours towards him. "Well..." he trailed off, beginning to stand. "I trust that the king has told you of the minimum of my plans, correct?" he asked, his voice coated with a fake monotone.

All the officials either nodded or mumbled a small "yes". England felt better once he stood; it made him feel that he had the control in the situation, though he didn't really.

Despite what the governors had said, England repeated what his big "plan" was. "There are some major issues with the details of our military." he stated, awaiting someone else to speak up. And his wishes were granted, as the only general present began conversing with him.

The gentleman cleared his throat. "As a general, I _do _realise that our uniforms and battle strategies cause us to walk on a mere string." he commented. Britain was pleased that the man agreed with him without inquiries; it made matters simpler. His mental indulgence was cut short, however, for another man stood from his seat. This man was more in the mood to start argument, though.

"We can't just change our uniforms, let alone our whole army's way of battle!" the man's voice boomed throughout the entire room. "We have been doing the same exact thing for years upon years! And you expect everything to change so suddenly? Britain's 'plan' is complete rubbish!" the man yelled.

Said nation cringed slightly, not being used to such a loud voice. Though anger was boiling in the pit of England's stomach, he kept it from pushing up his throat and flowing out of his mouth. Being the gentleman he was, the nation gave the official several moments to calm himself before replying to the man's outburst.

"I am most certain that our nation's safety is more important than the image our military presents." his voice was stern, yet calm when he spoke. "There is no way of knowing what sort of army we could encounter in the future." The man England was speaking to opened his mouth momentarily, but before anything could come out, England continued. "Better safe than sorry, hmm?" He gave a confidant smirk at the sight of the official; his mouth hung agape at Britain's verbal attack.

Much to England's surprise, he didn't speak another word. All the official wished to say was delivered to him in a piercing glare, though it did not affect the blonde. England remained standing while the other sat back down, acting in a child-like manner. Britain stood straight with confidence, his eyes surveying everyone else in the room, as if daring them to question him. Moments passed before England sat back down, satisfied with his work.

The sharp and deadly silence was broken by the creak of a chair. Everyone was interrupted from their thoughts as they followed the sound and looked to the source of it. King George stood at the head of the table, with all eyes glued to him. "Britain has a point, does he not?"

Burning all of their own opinions to ashes, everybody nodded like the loyal mutts they were. England hid the grin that was struggling to make its way to his features. He felt overwhelming confidence wash over him in a wave; how he loved that feeling.

"It's settled then, we will work up the funds to stitch new uniforms and receive new training." the King announced. A few hardly audible groans came from some of the officials, but they wouldn't dare to make them loud enough for George to hear.

England had to keep himself from making sounds of disgust at the officials' reactions. How childish these men were; England was shocked he had just now noticed their foolishness. A scowl crossed his face momentarily, but disappeared within seconds.

The main step of his task was complete; now all Britain had to do was sit back and relax as he watched the servants of his nation do the rest of the work.

The day England arrived at the colonies was surprisingly pleasant for a winter day. The endless fountain of salty, clear water he had arrived on shone with dazzling glitters of light reflecting from the golden token that resided in the enchanting soft blue sky. A gentle breeze slipped through the bare tree branches, giving the town a calm atmosphere. The few birds in the air above him chirped and fluttered their feathers in contentment, seemingly pleased by the gorgeous state of day they were in. Though the air surrounding him was mercilessly frigid, England didn't find an ounce of displeasure in him at the delightful sight surrounding New Jersey.

As much as the nation would have loved to stroll through one of his motherland's colonies for a change, he already had one top priority.

Having no time to spare from taking his time to admire the scenery of such a marvellous day, England started towards the train station.

Britain gazed out the window near his seat, watching as the few white puffs of cotton floated throughout the sky. Ah, how breath-taking it was to see a clear, blue sky instead of one that held large, grey clouds and hid the beauty behind it.

The day had been pleasant for England, and the young bloke that awaited him at his residence in Boston would make it even more charming.

Several light knocks on the door made America whip his attention towards the source of the sound. Knowing exactly who stood on the other side, the boy dashed towards the door, nearly tripping over the rug. He swung the door open.

England smiled down at the younger male, his suitcase in hand. "Hello, America." he greeted the colony, using his vacant hand to run his fingers through soft, sand-coloured strands of hair.

The gesture apparently was not enough to satisfy America, though. He tied his arms around England's slim waist, squeezing the breath out of him.. "England, you're home!" He rejoiced, pointing out the obvious.

England grunted in pain. America was still not yet able to control his incredible strength. "A-America... You're hurting me..." the Brit gasped.

In realisation of the harm he was causing the elder, America let his arms fall from around England's body, which both relieved and disappointed the older man. "S-Sorry..." the American lad mumbled, lowering his head slightly in shame.

The way America's bottom lip jutted out in a pout forced England to assure the boy, "It's okay! It was an accident."

America's previous fit of depression disappeared at Britain's words, and a smile took up the room on his face. England couldn't resist chuckling lightly at the boy's wave of different emotions.

"What do you say we go outside? It's absolutely lovely out. I'm surprised you didn't go out yet."

America nodded furiously. "I was waiting for you." he said.

The words made England's vulnerable heart slam itself against his ribcage, begging for him to release his emotions. He tried desperately to hide the hue of red that dared to creep on his features, and nodded in understanding. _'America, why must you make my life so difficult?'_


	4. Chapter 4

Drops of crystal liquid slammed against the bare ground, and, along with them, went salty, clear water from sapphires that were once glinted with such happiness and beauty. They now matched the colourless sky of bleak and dull nothingness. The sound of both liquids making contact with the dirt crowded the ears of both nations, leaving no room for the shouts of English soldiers in the background. The banging of bullets against soon-to-be deceased or injured men. England's abnormal heartbeat met that of America—heavy and never-ending, creating a tune with the chorus of raindrops dribbling down from the grey bunch of grumbling and growling clouds above. The tune fitted nicely with the scene that played off before it. The scene seemed rather déjà vu in emerald eyes—though, it still managed to keep itself unique. The nation that would have been known as the United States of America—though he was defeated—refused to let his pride crumble to pieces and kept his head up, not daring to look away from the very man who refused to give him independence.

"America..." Britain mumbled his name for no particular reason. The vital organ that resided in his chest ached, but not nearly as much as it had ached on the original day. "Your army can no longer fight us." he stated. "Your nation still belongs to _me._"

America stared for several seconds, letting the words sink deeply into his brain. Much to England's surprise, he let out a soft, sad chuckle. "You're right." he agreed with slight reluctance. "Well, there's nothing I can do about it." The American stood, but not in a threatening way. "Let's go." he murmured.

England raised a bold eyebrow. "...go?" he inquired it in a rather vague way, but the confusion that masked his face didn't hide the fact that it was a question.

America gave a quick nod of his head. "Let's go home. My army has failed, right? You said it yourself, I belong to Great Britain." He walked towards England as he finished his final sentence. It was then, that Britain caught a proper glance of the larger male. Pale cheeks were stained with inactive tears. His bright, cerulean orbs had dulled down to something colourless. And the worst was his smile. It didn't seem like it had for all of the years of his existence. It was grey and bland, colourless and tasteless. It was unhappy. Most of all, it wasn't right for America.

_'Please don't be sad, my dear America. You're with me now. I'll always be with you. I won't leave you on trips anymore, you may accompany me. I'll do my best to improve my cooking so you can enjoy it. I'll do everything in my power, and better. So please, don't be sad.' _England's own thoughts had him drifting towards America's body, and wrapping his arms around the form he had grown to know and love. Despite the merciless cold of the stormy night, Britain's body was engulfed in a warmth that he had not felt in a long time. "Yes, let's go."

Later that same evening, England watched as America's chest heaved up and sunk back down in a seemingly pleasant slumber. The tear stains that had once inhabited his cheeks were now a mere memory. It felt so peculiar. One moment, tears of agony and helplessness streamed down both of their faces. The next, his beloved rested in his bed without a care in the world. Perhaps this meant he was feeling better, just a bit? England prayed so.

Before he could restrain his needs, Britain made a daring move and leaned his face towards the sleeping American in front of him. Soft, vulnerable lips lay in front of him. Sucking in a nervous breath, England closed the gap between him and the younger man. The foreign feeling he had longed for was even more delightful than he had imagined. He let his eyes slide shut in contentment. America's lips were soft enough to feel somewhat feminine, but they were also slightly chapped. The bumps on his lips were enjoyed by the Englishman as their closed mouths were pressed against each other. England slid the tip of his tongue against America's bottom lip, nearly moaning out of excitement from the contact. Half a second after he completed the act, he removed his lips from America's. England prayed that he hadn't woken the sleeping blonde, and looked down at his face. Britain sighed inaudibly, seeing that America was still fast asleep in dreamland. With one last glimpse at the handsome face of his younger brother in the darkness, England exited the room, gently closing the door behind him.

America's eyes slowly creeped open at the soft tap of the door being closed. His cheeks were ablaze from the intimate contact with England. His lower lip was still moist from the older nation's muscular organ brushing against it. America brought his fingers to his mouth, as if trying to calm the tingling sensation erupting from his lips.

America despised the suddenness of it all. Losing a war was bad enough, but then finding out the very man who had raised him possessed feelings for him? It was all too foreign. It made America feel even more frightened for the future and what deadly events it held. But the man wasn't a fool, he knew he couldn't do anything about it. The only thing he could do was let his head fall back against his soft, warm pillow and lull himself into a slumber with dreams that he would hopefully find some comfort in.

Britain sat alone in his bedchamber, his book of spells sprawled out in front of him. Words of the Latin language flowed from his mouth as he stared at the pentagram drawn in front of him. Once he finished his last sentence, a familiar light grew from only his words and the air surrounding him. England stood from his bed, gazing into the blinding light in front of him. _'America, meet me in 2014. I hope you're happy with me there.'_

Britain let his eyes fall shut, and he walked straight into the portal before him. The brightness crowding his sight was gradually replaced with darkness. He felt his knees collapsing from under him, and his upper body went along with them as he was lulled into unconsciousness.


	5. Chapter 5

**OKAY OKAY OKAY OKAY. I KNOWWW IT'S BEEN FOREVER SINCE I UPDATED. What's even worse? This chapter is REEEEEEALLY short. BUT, I think (THINK) that the next chapter will be out kinda soon. I have the next events planned out; it's just not very fitting to add them in on this chapter just to make it longer.**

**ANYWAYYY, on with the story~**

England's eyes whipped open in a frenzy, meeting the white ceiling that his hotel bed was facing. His shirt stuck to his sweaty skin like glue, hinting that his trip back from the 1700s left him a bit shaken. Britain groaned as he sat up from his previous position, abandoning all comfort he had. His head screamed out in pain. Despite it, he turned his head towards the clock that hung by its lonesome on the wall.

England's vision was coated with a mask of blur, so it took moments until the digits on the clock were even close to being readable. He squinted until the green of his eyes were mere slits. The time was...oh shit.

"Bollocks!" he exclaimed in irritation, pouncing from his bed. He was 30 minutes late for today's meeting! England stumbled towards his suitcase, hitting his toe against the frame in the process. The Englishman growled in annoyance as he opened his suitcase and grabbed a neatly-folded suit and fresh undergarments. He pulled on his pants in a frenzy, nearly tripping over them in his struggle. On his shirt went, then a poorly tied tie. At last, he was quickly buttoning his jacket, skipping a few as well.

The Briton didn't bother to brush his hair or teeth; there wasn't enough time. He slipped his shoes on and was out the door within 5 minutes.

Hallways were zoomed by and occasional passerby were avoided. England swiftly saved himself from colliding with the door he was supposed to enter, coming to an abrupt stop. He gave himself no time to breathe, as he was soon whipping the door open and walking in with a hunched back.

Various eyes of different ethnicities were glued to him as he stood at the threshold, breathing heavily. England's head whipped up at the sound of a familiar chuckle.

"Mon ami, you look terrible!" France teased, erupting in short, non-stop giggles.

Britain growled in annoyance, clearly not in the mood to deal with any of France's shit. "Shut up, Frog! So what if I do?" he huffed, walking towards the table and taking the seat that was closest to where he was.

The only sounds left in the room were that of the Frenchman's uncontrollable laughter as he struggled to keep them quiet to an extent.

England scanned the room he sat in, looking for the soul reason he sat in that chair. Everyone was present, it seemed. Though, it occurred to the Brit that there _was _indeed something—or rather, someone—missing. The room felt somewhat...empty. The usual smell of fast food that would linger throughout meetings wasn't present. Neither was a loud, American accent that just _had_ to interrupt every single word someone said. No mop of wheat-blond hair with a single cowlick sticking out was in view. That moment of realisation made England's heart thunder in his chest at how unusual it was. America wasn't there. It wasn't uncommon for him to be late, but _45 minutes?_ It was peculiar indeed.

Letting his curiosity get the best of him, England broke the thick silence that had seemed forever present. "Hey...does anyone know where America is?" he inquired, struggling to keep the concern in his words hidden.

The silence grew even deeper. Not a single chuckle erupted from France anymore. It was quiet—too quiet—and England didn't like the threatening chill that it sent running up his spine. The Englishman swore that everyone in the room could hear his chest heaving steadily and speedily. It seemed that way because all eyes were on him in a way that made that chill on his spine crash through his bones and hit his heart, causing it to stop its beating with a bloody and agonising stab. Red, blue, purple, brown—multiple colours clashed with his own emerald ones in a battle, and Britain felt himself failing miserably.

"England, what do you mean?" Said Briton turned his head to the heavy French accent that spoke to him. Immediately, he was surprised that France had used his actual name instead of some flirtatious or friendly terms in French.

England pondered on how to reply. It was difficult, seeing as he didn't know nor understand what France was asking. How much clearer could he get with the inquiry of where the loud and obnoxious American was?

"It's just that..." Britain trailed off momentarily. "He's usually not this late, so..." once again, his words went off into no where.

A Chinese accent interrupted their conversation rather rudely. "Are you crazy? I think you need more sleep!"

England raised a bushy eyebrow in utter confusion. "Wha-" he was cut off.

Germany sighed. "I'm afraid I must agree with China." he admitted. "England, are you sure you're feeling alright?" the German asked with concern for his fellow country.

England's eyes switched back and forth between both men. What did they mean? Was he "feeling alright"? Was he "crazy"? The questions that were aimed at him only added to the painful pressure and fear pressing on him.

"Wh-What the bloody hell are you two talking about?" he asked, stutters slipping from his words.

England's attention was soon put back on France. "England..." he trailed off, seemingly to prepare for what he was going to say. But nothing could prepare the Englishman for what was about to be said. "America is dead."

**OHHHH I BET YOU **_**HATE**_ **ME EVEN MORE NOW. aHAHAHA IM JUST VILE.**

**I have a feeling that there are some big-ass spelling mistakes in here but I just didn't notice 'em when I was proof-reading. Oh well.**

**See you next chapter (which will hopefully be soon)~!**


	6. Chapter 6

"America is dead."

The words echoed throughout England's hollow ears, bouncing off of his eardrums and going off into no where. His mouth hung agape as he just stared idly at France and he stared back. England could just barely hear the rest of the countries as they began the meeting once again. Even as life began to set in motion for the rest of the world, he and the Frenchman remained isolated in an invisible bubble. It took ages before the words actually reached Britain's brain; and when they did, his head ached mercilessly as if it didn't want to hear the words either.

The next moment was unexpected for all of the countries. England stood up tediously slow from his seat and slammed his fists again the table, causing them to seize the colour white. His action broke the barrier that isolated him and France from the rest of the nations, and all eyes went his way. He paid them no mind, though, as his gaze was striking the mahogany table the others sat at. After long, agonising seconds, his voice broke through the silence like a meteor crashing through the atmosphere.

"...What are you talking about?" England asked, though he didn't provide France with enough time to reply.

He faced the Frenchman, emeralds meeting sapphires. "What do you mean _'America's __dead'?!"_ Britain demanded violently, his words slapping France hard in the face.

The fellow European was reluctant to reply, but he still did so. "Why are you acting this way? You have never reacted like this since it actually happened!" France's words hid a bit of fright in them.

"Since _what_ happened?!"

France stood up as well, his fists meeting the table roughly and causing it to shake. "Since America's suicide, you imbecile!"

England froze for the umpteenth time in that meeting, letting the words seep past his eardrums and burrow themselves into his brain. His furrowed eyebrows relaxed as his mouth was left agape, as if he wanted to say something but couldn't.

"Suicide?" he asked in a whisper.

Just as France was about to reply, a booming German accent interrupted him. "Go discuss this somewhere else! We have a meeting going on here!" Germany scolded.

France and Britain glanced back at each other, as if sharing a sigh. They reluctantly sat back down as Germany began speaking of the situation with global warming. Both nations seemed to have difficulty with listening to the larger man, especially England.

America had committed...suicide? Why would he do that? Hell, was it even _possible _for a country to take their own life? Questions ripped Britain's brain to helpless shreds. What was even worse was that there were no ways to receive answers—not even from France; the man didn't know what went through the American's head!

Speech continued to come towards England like steady, crashing waves. The waves were ignored by him though, even if he was watching whoever was speaking. Mouths were just moving, and words were just sounds. The Englishman was unable to process the non-stop words that came from multiple nations. As he sat there in his chair, motionless, his eyebrows furrowing in frustration, not a single soul asked for his consent on any subject they were discussing. It was as if they knew doing so wouldn't lead to any beneficial answer from the blonde.

The rest of the meeting played off like that—complete déjà vu. Britain wasn't even quite sure when the meeting came to an end; all he knew was that he was interrupted from his intense musing by a familiar face with stubble and blue eyes with rather long, blond locks hanging from the sides.

"The meeting is over." France informed him idly.

England could feel his face heat up briefly at his own stupidity. "R-Right." he mumbled as he stood up.

The French nation gave him one last sideways glance as he turned and walked away, leaving England to face his formally dressed back. France was stopped in his tracks as he felt a light tug on his jacket.

"Wait." the Briton began hesitantly. "I need to ask you something."

France raised a confused eyebrow at the other. "What is it?" he asked, though he had a feeling he already knew what it would be related to.

He was proved correct, as England inquired, "Where is America buried?"

With a heavy and pitiful sigh, France answered, "You'll be seeing him once you head back to London." He looked England straight in the eye. "He's buried in your backyard."

Britain nodded slowly at the other, and France cracked a small smile—almost resembling a smirk. "I hope you feel better next time. Seems like you got a little something going on up here." he added teasingly, pointing to his head as he stalked out of the room.

This time, England felt—and truly was—alone. But he wouldn't know if he was for sure unless he found the truth. It looked like he was skipping tomorrow's meeting; he would be going to London.

Several hours later, England was rushing to get off of the plane he had taken from Germany. He tripped and stumbled every few seconds as he made a poor attempt to drag his luggage to the nearest cab as fast as he could.

He waved a driver down and entered, eagerly awaiting his arrival at his residence. Soon enough, familiar shops and services began whipping by through the window. Practically jumping out of the car before it stopped, England threw the cab driver his fare before bolting out the door with his luggage in hand.

The Englishman didn't bother to stop inside to put his luggage away, but simply made his way towards the garden gate—which was also known as his backyard. Despite the fact that England was moving as fast as he could, the world seemed to slow down into tedious movements and loud, echoing sounds of his shoes lifting briefly before meeting the ground. At some point, though, Britain had at last made it to the large, mesmerising arrangement of blossoming colours behind his house. As his journey to prove France wrong came to an end, those colours began to disappear into thin air—along with the flowers themselves. It wasn't just the flowers, though; the sounds of bustling throughout the capital of Great Britain were silenced into the wind as if they were merely the words of a storybook. And the bright blue sky above dulled down to a grey nothingness, along with the yellow dot that would normally rest in that sky.

Everything was turning into nothing. Though, there were two objects that remained in their place. A terrorised England, and a piece of smoothed out granite that simply read:

_"Here lies Alfred F. Jones._

_Great Britain's former thirteen colonies."_

England could hear the sound of the precious organ in his chest crumbling to pieces. It was because of how heartless the engraving was, making it seem as if America was merely a piece of land owned by his majesty and nothing more. It was because of how quickly the realisation had settled in, leaving England no time to somewhat soothe the cuts that had burned him. Most of all, it was because America was gone. And the only way to bring him back was truly going against all that he had done to change his life with America. Even so, he'd make an exception. If America had been upset with the way things turned out, then his actions were all in vain and needed to be undone.

_**A/N:**_ **Ahh this chapter didn't get that much happier, eh? Well, at least you know **_**how**_ **America died now.**

**BTW, I would've put a birth date and death date on the grave, but I wasn't exactly sure what to put. Like, the day of independence wouldn't work. Maybe when he was taken into Britain's custody? But..he existed before that...so... Screw it.**

**Until next chapter, mis amigos~**


	7. Chapter 7

**I shall be putting a few quotes from some infamous serial murderers before the rest of the chapters because I can.**

_**"I like children; they are tasty."**_

_**~Albert Fish**_

"_**She was giving me oral sex, and she got carried away . . . So I choked her."**_

_**~Arthur Shawcross**_

"_**You feel the last bit of breath leaving their body. You're looking into their eyes. A person in that situation is God!"**_

_**~Ted Bundy**_

Not long after England had discovered that America had truly committed suicide, he was fading through a portal to the 1700s for what seemed like the umpteenth time. He found himself awoken days before he had suggested to King George that they change their battle strategies and outfits. It would remain that way, as well.

That way it had remained until the tiresome, agonising déjà vu known as the American Revolution. Crystal fluid met the bare ground as it had those two other times. Tears bore from the faces of both men, as well; only this time, England's tears fell like water from a flooding waterfall compared to America's. The soul difference was that the Englishman knelt before his now former colony, his pain-stricken face hidden in his hand in an attempt to bury the agony so far down that it wouldn't be found. America stood above him, his ice-cold cerulean orbs piercing into England like a blade, though there was still some pity for the other hidden in them.

Unsure of what exactly to do to let his frustration and pain out, Britain merely shouted, "Dammit!"

America simply continued to gaze at the nation that had once taken such good care of him as a young colony. With that thought in mind, he said solemnly, "I'm not your little brother anymore." He took a step closer to the other. "I'm your equal." he swore.

Although the words made England's already aching heart yearn for aid even more, he still felt a peculiar sense of satisfaction. Perhaps it was because his beloved United States Of America wasn't in pain, and he was instead. He didn't reply to the American's statement, but a brief thought did run through his head.

_'I'm sorry that I was so selfish last time. Perhaps this can make up for it?'_

That night, as England led the remaining of the troops to a ship that would return them to Britain, he felt tears tingling at his emerald eyes. He could feel tiny drops of water forming and falling to the tip of his eyelashes, then falling down his face.

"Mister England, is something the matter?" he heard a soldier ask him hesitantly.

The Briton's head turned towards the source of the voice. What he was unaware of was that there were streams of salted liquid strolling down his now flustered cheeks.

"What do you . . . " he trailed off, never quite gaining the courage to continue his inquiry.

After his (hopefully) last trip to the 1700s, England was sinking into the portal once again. He could only pray that his agonising works had some sort of pleasant outcome for America.

His head ached mercilessly as usual, as if telling him to keep from traveling back and forth. Something urged him to put his head back down on that warm, inviting pillow instead of the hellish kingdom known as consciousness. Though no one was quite aware of it, when England was tired, there was little chance of getting him out of bed no matter the circumstances. Yes, even the eagerness to see that adorable, daft little American was beaten by his suffering forehead screaming at him. But he deserved a rest, right? Yep, he definitely did. With that insistence in mind, Britain's head was sent back down towards the feathered heaven known as a pillow. He drowned in that ecstatic heaven for about 5 seconds.

Loud bangs against his hotel door made his eyes fly open. The bothersome sound of knuckles making contact with the wooden surface made him growl out loud, as if it was an attempt to tell whoever was making those sounds to just leave him to his own devices. That attempt was apparently not good enough, seeing as the pounding on the door only got louder and faster.

Not even bothering to try and fall back asleep, England was shifting from his position and removing himself from the bed. With a rub of his forehead and a low groan, the Englishman was moving towards the door. His fingers touched the knob before twisting it and opening it. He swung open the door with an unpleasant scowl on his face and then felt his heart skip multiple beats. England almost had to pound on the spot where his heart resided to get it functioning again. Once the organ began pumping blood throughout his body once again, he could truly assure himself that the sight in front of him was real.

"Dude, get outta your jammies! The meeting is starting in like, 5 minutes!" Golden locks bounced as a familiar American moved with his exclamation. Cerulean orbs pierced through England's smaller form, supporting the American's statements.

England found himself helplessly unresponsive at the astonishing feeling of sea-blue rushing over him. Suddenly, the atrocious, pounding pain seizing his forehead seemed invisible—along with the urge to lull himself into a slumber. The only feeling he craved was that of azure orbs clashing with his flourished, garden-like ones. And an amazing experience that was—meeting America's perfectly normal eyes after what seemed like an eternity. It felt like the entire ocean that was hidden in those eyes had been poured on him. But the sensation was short-lived at the sweet, boyish voice that was also quite mesmerising.

Fingers were waved in front of his face in an attempt to knock him from his trance. "Uh, bro? You okay?" America asked with an eyebrow raised that seemed equally confused.

England could feel his cheeks bloom with unwanted heat at the thought of himself staring dumbly at the American. He stumbled on his words, but found himself able to form a reply. "Y-Yes. Perfectly fine."

America nodded slowly, as if not quite sure whether to believe the elder or not. "Then get ready." he said.

Britain didn't have the ability to reply, so he just closed the door on the other's face. He felt a sense of guilt for doing something so un-gentleman-like. Brushing that weight off of his shoulders, he sighed and began washing up and dressing, a certain happy-go-lucky American lingering in his love stricken mind.

**Yay this chapter...kinda ended happily? Fuck it at least America is back to his old self.**

**I feel bad for everyone who reads this on Wattpad...because I'm gonna have to post it later for them ;-; I mean, I have school in like 5 minutes and I don't have enough time to download the app, italicise whatever needs to be italicised, and **_**then**_ **publish it. No.**

**Until next chapter, mis amigos~**


	8. Chapter 8

**Hey hey hey hey this chapter is kinda late but dude my dad thinks that "retard" is spelled "retart". What the bloody hell is a **_**"retart" **_**anyways? Like, is it a tart that died and came back to life or something? *gasps* It's Jesus Christ! He's come to save us! Praaaaaise hiiiiiim! (Haha atheist)**

"**The demons wanted my penis."**

**~David Berkowitz (A.K.A. "The Son Of Sam")**

**"Tell me, after my head has been chopped off, will I still be able to hear, at least for a moment, the sound of my own blood gushing from the stump of my neck? That would be a pleasure to end all pleasures."**

**~Peter Kurten**

It had been a few weeks since England reunited with America. He found himself staring at the younger nation longer than he had previously, as if he'd blend in with the air and disappear if he turned away. He also became more possessive of the American, though it wasn't in his place to do so. He would growl whenever even one of their fellow nations laid a friendly hand on his shoulder. Once he realised how he was acting like a protective mother bear guarding over her helpless little cub, he would sigh at his actions and cover his face with his hands in distress and self-loathing. And every so often, someone would come over and ask if he was alright; he'd reply with a simple, "Yes," and a phoney smile.

Britain truly did feel hopeless—even more so than before he had decided to make an attempt to "change fate". His emerald orbs stared up at a blank ceiling as if it would give him the well-needed answer of what to do. Every time they flickered as a busted lightbulb does, the same image of golden wheat dropping from the side of a stunning face and complimenting sapphire gems flashed in his closed eyes. And with every time it occurred, that image seemed to become even more real, as if he could reach out and run his fingers through that messy mop of blond hair. But when he did reach out, he felt nothing but the air surrounding him.

England sighed heavily, though it shook a little. He could feel teardrops stinging at his eyes and beginning to break out of their dam. Britain's throat began to shake, struggling to let out sobs. He let them have their way; cries broke from his lips, and they didn't stop.

"Dammit!" he cried in frustration as he buried his face in his pillow—the only thing that seemed to give him any comfort. England's voice shook violently as he let more words out. "Why... Why does our love have to be one-sided?" he asked no one, and no one answered him.

For the umpteenth time in a few weeks, England cried at America's mercy. But unlike those times during the revolution, he wasn't with him.

England was violently shook from his slumber at the sound of hard knuckles slamming against his door. As his head rose from his pillow, the skin under his eyes was brushed with a cool breeze due to the dried tears from the previous night. A yawn was ripped from his lungs in need of oxygen as he sat up and proceeded to walk towards the door.

"I'm coming, I'm coming!" he growled, annoyed by the nonstop pounding as it got louder.

The scowl on his face showed his unpleasantry at the déjà vu that was being woken during his well-needed sleep. Once he reached the door and flung it open, he was struck with that pain-filled feeling in his chest that wasn't too foreign; he had felt it at the last meeting. It felt as if a cold, sharp dagger had plunged into his chest at a direct aim for his heart. Perhaps it was the suddenness of his beloved America's appearance—the warning he did not receive. He found his speech caught in the back of his throat, but was able to choke it back up to his lips.

"What the bloody hell are you doing here so early?!" he scolded. Just because he loved America _did not_ mean he would be okay with him skipping by at one in the morning.

Britain nearly puffed out his chest in pride at the sight of America frowning and cowering slightly. Sadly, that moment didn't last very long.

"W-Well, I... I was visitin' here, and I was 'bout to go to a hotel to...to crash at and I saw this...this really nice-lookin' pub so I...I went in and...and I had a few drinks. Then I left, like, at midnight or somethin'. When...When I went to the h-hotel the lady at the d-desk was bein' a real bitch, man! She wouldn't let me in, just 'cause I had a few drinks!" the American slurred breathlessly, huffing and crossing his arms childishly.

Just then, England began to notice the red hue decorating his cheeks. He rolled his eyes and sighed heavily—not quite because of the drunken American that was requesting to stay in his house, but because he actually couldn't resist letting America stay with him.

Without quite realising it, he began to move to the side of the door to allow the other to enter. England placed his hand on America's back as the man staggered into the warm and comforting atmosphere in the house and abandoned the frigid and lonesome wind that howled outside. The younger nation grinned stupidly as he leaned his body against England's backside, his chin resting contently on the sloppy, blond mop of hair that had yet to be properly groomed. The Englishman under him could feel his cheeks blooming with warmth at the unexpected _rather too physical _company of the other male. England could feel America's nose searching through his strands of yellow hair and heard obnoxious sniffing coming from above.

"Haha, Iggy! You smell good." America informed the flushed Briton below him.

Not able to take the humiliation that was crashing onto him in sudden waves, he broke from America's grip that was wrapped weakly around his shoulders.

"L-Let go!" he stuttered as he removed his unwilling body from the American's. It seemed to be in vain, though, as America's arms were once again wrapped around him—only this time it was at his waist. He was unsuccessful with protesting at the booming complaints erupting from the other nation's slurred speech.

"Eh? Iggy, you're...you're s-so _mean!"_ he whined, big, dramatic tears welling near his bottom lashes and threatening to come crashing down.

Oh god, did that continuous, annoying, and utterly _heartbreaking_ sobbing get to England. He found himself in a state of panic, his helpless brain wondering what to do to calm the wasted American. He lifted his hand and patted America's sun-like locks awkwardly yet gently; it was an act he had used repeatedly when the younger nation was a mere colony when he was trying to calm him down (though it was much more easier when done to a child, not a _full-grown man). _Apparently, it still worked its magic—as England could hear the sobbing gradually get softer and softer until it was nothing but a quiet whimper every now and then.

America's sea-blue eyes met with forest-green ones, his arms still wrapped tightly around England's waist. The European was on the verge of squealing at the fact that the look America gave him was one of such childishness, such _innocence_—it was truly unbearable. He could practically see the dull light floating in his irises shaking with such delicacy.

The words that came from America next were a bit unexpected, but easy to comprehend.

"I'm sorry I got mad." he said in a whisper, his eyes seeming to ask for forgiveness.

The light feel of warm breath against his cheek made England's skin tingle. He was sure that America could feel the steady pounding of his heart slamming against his ribcage like a drum, but he found himself too lost in azure orbs to care. Seconds whipped by before Britain mustered up the will to reply to America's long forgotten words.

"It's... It's okay." he reassured him, a bit of nervousness and hesitance tinging his words.

America didn't reply, but kept his eyes glued to England's blushing features. The Englishman failed to notice as the other's grip on his waist began to falter; only when his eyelids began to weigh down over his cerulean orbs did he take notice of the American's soon-to-be present slumber.

Suddenly, America's body weight was collapsing on him. Beginning to panic, England did his best to haul him off of him and drag him to the sofa. He could hear snores sounding noisily from America as he pushed the otherwise dead man onto the cushions. His muscles ached at the weight that had just been released from his shoulders.

England walked off into his room where he fetched a pillow and blanket. As he entered the living room once again, he sighed when he saw America snoring blatantly, one leg hanging over the side of the sofa and one leg barely staying on. Britain lifted the stray limb from its spot in the middle of nowhere, putting America in a more comfortable position. He lifted the quilt in his hand, letting it glide in the air for a bit before it came fluttering down gently on America's body. He lifted the younger's head, slipping the pillow under.

America smiled lightly—in a way that was incredibly adorable. He snuggled his head into the warm, feathery nirvana as if it were a mother doe, and him her offspring.

As England gazed passionately down at the American, he couldn't help but let his fingers indulge a bit—with a smooth run through sun-lit locks. His breath began to harmonise with the snores that bloomed gently from America. The way he acted when he was drunk was like that of a child—a fact that was quite new to England. He had never seen America get drunk; or at least, he had, but he as well had been too drunk to remember any of it. Despite the childish obnoxiousness that seemed to constantly burst from the drunken American—even as he slept—England found himself urged to lean forward and bump lips gently with America. It didn't have to be breath-taking, it didn't have to be lust-coated—it just had to be from America's lips. Those lips that were so perfectly pink with saliva drooping from the side of his open mouth, the ones that were constantly consuming unhealthy food choices for their owner. England still remembered what they had felt like, what they had tasted of. Although he had been the only one with his lips moving, it was still the best kiss Britain had ever shared with anyone.

As he stared with these thoughts pounding into his mind, one rose to the surface above all else.

_'Sometimes... Sometimes I wish you remembered that kiss.'_

And in his head that thought lived, as he kneeled in front of the sofa, his arms folded on the little space that was left in front of America. He gazed softly at the dashing nation until his eyelids were weighed down with the need for sleep. Although America was physically out of sight, his beloved beauty was still stuck in his dreams, smiling brightly and lighting up England's dreary dreamland.

**Wow that was **_**really**_ **fun to write. I'm sorry that didn't have much shit happening but at least you got a look at the hurt England is feeling due to his obsession—I mean love—for America.**

**So it was also fun to write drunken America. I don't know why but I imagine that'd he'd be even more childish and without conscience. I don't really know how people normally act when they drink, seeing as I've never gone out drinking (I don't think 11 year olds should be drinking, anyway).**

**Wow I'm talking too much. Okay so I'm honesty not too sure when the next chapter will be out. I have next to no idea how this story is gonna start closing, let alone what the next chapter is gonna be about. Well, I'll just see where it goes.**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Sorry this is like, so late. Dat writers block doe.**

**Anywhore, DAWWW everyone left nice reviews~ (this includes the rest of the chapters too). I haven't thanked you guys, sorry ;-; but it means a lot, really! So here is another chapter, mis amigos (right after these beautiful** **quotes)~**

**"Killing is like marriage, fun at first till you realise what you've done."**

**~The Zodiac**

"**To me, this world is nothing but evil, and my own evil just happened to come** **out 'cause of the circumstances of what I was doing."**

**~Aileen** **Wuornos**

Stray sunlight creeped through the blinds and ignited the room from its dark state, causing some of it to glitter into England's eyelids and just barely hitting his eyes. The light stung as he let his emerald gems creep out from their cave. But that wasn't his main focus right now. Rather, it was the fact that a loudly snoring American lay right in front of him—barely two inches away.

Out of instinct, Britain backed up, somewhat startled by the unexpected surprise. His heartbeat quickened just enough so he could feel the light beats of his heart as if it were skipping about a sidewalk. The Englishman turned away before further temptation rushed over him, and started towards the kitchen. For the first time in his life, he was actually glad that America was a late riser. Had he seen England right across from his body, sleeping soundly . . . Well, let's just say there'd be an awful lot of explaining to do.

'_Even so, he'll probably be wondering why he's in my house in the first place.'_ England added silently.

The events of the previous night took their precious time to linger in his mind. And how irritated he was at those memories—for they caused his face to flush and his fingers to tremble. God damn it, was that embarrassing. Although he and America didn't actually do anything serious, he still found himself stunned by the fact that those certain things definitely _could_ have been done. Clearly, the American had been soaked from the inside out, meaning that when he awoke this morning, everything that occurred last night would be nothing but a leaf floating by in the wind. And that meant that England definitely could had—and should have—done some rather "unholy" things with the younger nation. Oh, the thought gave him the shivers. But even so, in a sense, England guessed that he would sort have been forcing himself on America, and that was what he wished to do the least.

The Englishman entertained himself by watching the sizzling pan on the oven with French toast resting in it. Occasionally, he stole a glance back at America every now and then. But of course, that caused his breakfast to burn slightly (nothing new there). He became too warped up in the cooking of the meal to notice the sound of a sofa creaking from sudden movement atop it.

"No no no no no no!" The exclamation made England jump from his settlement on the kitchen floor. His heartbeat quickened as he was startled from out of nowhere.

The Briton's emerald orbs immediately became dark and dreary—his glare sharp enough to cut cleanly through flesh. The nation behind England could practically see a deadly aura oozing from the back of him. America's knees knocked together as he was met with piercing green eyes that seemed to make his own eyes sting.

The darkness dripping from England's orbs didn't fade as he boomed, "What the bloody hell was that for, you idiot?!"

It took all the strength America had to look the elder straight in his eyes, though he soon regretted it.

"You...You can't cook breakfast!"

Well, that certainly was unexpected. Britain found himself staring blankly with disbelief painted all over his features.

His long sentence of silence ending, he said, "Why not?" There wasn't too much rage in his inquiry as much as there was complete confusion.

The American's fear seemed to have slipped away. "Well, duh! Your cooking sucks!"

Oh, and back that fear came charging straight for him once again. England's glare came as sharp as a knife towards him; he could practically feel a pain stabbing him in the chest.

"How dare you!" the Englishman yelled, his teeth gritting together. "I make you breakfast, and this is how you repay me?!"

America could hardly notice the small amount of sadness lingering in Britain's eyes—but he still caught sight of it. Well...England _did_ make breakfast for him. Plus, he had an aching headache and he woke up in the other's house—meaning he most likely showed up here drunk. Hell, he even owed England.

"S-Sorry..." America apologised, his eyes drifting towards the floor below.

England found the sincerity in the American's voice adorable and heart-stopping. Despite that, he turned away and continued to cook, anger still present in his system and a slight blush tinting his cheeks. He wouldn't give in too easily, but he couldn't stay mad at America.

America pouted as he stared at Britain's backside. At least he wasn't _that_ mad anymore. Figuring he didn't want to infuriate the man any more than he already had, America walked out of the kitchen and slumped back on the couch, occupying himself by staring at the Brit over the counter.

It didn't take long until the very man he had been gazing at walked towards him while holding out a plate filled with French toast, the edges black with unpleasant flavour.

'_Can you even burn French toast?'_ America pondered.

England tossed him a fork from the kitchen. America fumbled with it as it came into reaching distance, struggling not to cut himself.

"That's not safe..." he grumbled, cutting a middle piece of the toast that wasn't as burned as the sides. He felt better once he noticed that it was coated in maple syrup, so it could take up the room in most of his tastebuds.

England returned his response in a similar tone. "I know." He sat beside the American on the sofa, beginning to consume his syrup-free French toast.

As America continued to cut more pieces of the bread, his azure gaze drifted towards England's smaller form. The stern frown on his face was normal, as well as the emerald eyes that were slicing mercilessly into the poor carpet, as if it had wronged him. That's why America was unsure of why he found peculiar words slipping from his lip.

"Hey, I'm, uh, sorry." he mumbled, his pride forcing him to keep his eyes glued to the carpet in a poor attempt to hide the bright red spreading across his cheeks. That blush grew even worse when he was forced to continue his words at the confused, bushy eyebrow England rose towards his statement. "Y'know, about before."

England's eyes widened, staring hard at America. "Sorry?" he asked, as if not believing the American's apology.

If it were possible, America would have been as red as a tomato by now. "Yeah!" he shouted, burying his face in his hands. "Got a problem with it?!" The words were muffled, but thanks to their volume, they were audible.

Britain's face paled by the sudden outburst, his heart nearly stopping from their calm atmosphere being broken so suddenly. "N-No! I'm grateful!" These words caused America to move his hands slightly, just enough so his sea-blue orbs could be seen. "It's just that...It's not like you to just apologise like that." England observed.

America removed his hands from his entire face, the red previously teasing his features now faded. "Well..." He rubbed the backside of his neck. "I guess it's because I don't like to be hated."

Despite the sincerity in his words, England cackled lightly, causing America to send him daggers from azure orbs. "Well, no one does, now do they?" In a way, he was explaining his reason for laughing. "I hate being hated too, but I've never been so open about it."

"Well, you asked...sorta!" America protested.

More giggles erupted from Britain's throat, but not before he rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, sure I did!"

As his eyes were clamped shut in hearty laughter, the strong force pushing him down onto the sofa was unexpected. Now it was England's turn for his face to be dusted with pink. Emerald eyes shot open, clashing with eyes of sapphire gem.

"Stop it!" America yelled, although England's chuckling had came to a stop long ago.

The eternal organ in his chest was throwing itself against his ribcage like a wild animal stuck in captivity. America's face was just as it had been the night before. Somehow, it felt as if staring into those eyes was equivalent to gazing up at a cloudless sky on a breezy summer's day; it gave him the same warmth on his cheek, the same cool rushing feeling over the rest of his body. England really wanted to move away before the situation got worse than it already was, but by the time he was moving closer to America's face, all reason was wiped away.

'_Why am I doing this?' _the still reasonable section of the Englishman's mind wondered.

The feeling tingling on England's lips wasn't foreign—he could still remember that night of a single kiss shared with a supposedly slumbering America. The rush created by slowly moving lips closer and closer, the warm and comforting feeling of sweet lips pressing against his own. He was only able to relive the sensation for the little time America was still shocked.

In a second, Britain's lips were ripped from America's and a stern slap was placed across his cheek. He held his paining flesh, failing to notice the pounding of heavy footsteps against a hardwood floor. Only when he raised his head, did he realise that he was alone.

**A/N: okay okay let's all be honest, this chapter sucked BAWLS. I didn't really know how to lead up to them kissing, so ja ;-; I think my writing ability is getting worse, I dunno why.**

**Btw I made England make French toast to piss him off.**

**Okay so until next chapter...**


	10. Chapter 10

**"A clown can get away with murder."**

**~ John Wayne Gacy Junior**

**"The only thing they can get me for is running a funeral parlour without a license."**

**~ John Wayne Gacy Junior**

After the kiss he and America had shared briefly, England hadn't met those cerulean eyes. During meetings the American would be facing the opposite direction of him—even while he spoke. Britain had began to wonder if he was frightened of him.

_'Yeah, probably.' _he rolled his eyes wryly. He could see it so easily—the way America refused to make any sort of physical contact, or even _speak_ to him. The very rare times when he did, his voice was quiet and sliced up into stutters. Hell, had no one else noticed? This little bundle of joy that represented the happy-go-lucky, pop-culture filled nation known as the U.S.A. was now practically pissing his pants around the man he had supposedly received such joy out of irritating? Either all the other nations were far too oblivious to notice the sudden change of attitude, or they noticed but simply figured that it was none of their business.

England kept his eyes glued to the side of America's face. His chin resting in his hand, he thought, _'Why did I have to kiss him?!'_ He covered his facial features with his hand as a form of self-loathing. From the space between his fingers, he continued to stare. It wasn't quite out of admiration, but as if to say, "I'm so sorry." He felt like a complete _asshole_. It was as if he had raped America's mind of that beautiful state of oblivion and innocence that it had once so proudly flaunted. Britain wanted that innocence back so very much—even to the point where he pondered on whether or not to go back in time again. But of course, he had this irritating conscience that kept telling him to take a look at what had occurred the last time he did _that_.

"England!" a strongly Asian-accented voice broke said country from his otherwise ongoing daze.

England head lifted up, and the expression on his confused features may or may not have made him look like a complete fool. The tiny, "Wha?" that he let out only contributed to that problem.

China rolled his eyes. "It's break time, so stop your staring and get up or something." he ordered, walking away, but not before giving a quick flip of his long, shiny, nearly obsidian hair.

England didn't hesitate to roll his eyes as well, perhaps just to relieve the feeling that he had lost the battle that hardly occurred between them. "Hmph." he grunted stubbornly, raising from his seat and beginning to wander off to anywhere but the meeting room.

The stress weighing down heavily on him gave England the desire for the smooth feeling of steamy, English tea sliding down his throat. The hotel was the fancy kind that had a cosy room for tea and coffee—also providing seats for enjoying it. Now _that_ was just about what the Englishman wanted—no, _needed_. As he entered the room, though, he saw that someone had already been making coffee. Someone very, _very, _familiar. In fact, it was the very American that had put the massive amount of stress on his shoulders.

Nearly having a heart attack, Britain began stumbling out of the room to meet the threshold of the door. It frustrated him, but he knew what had to be done.

_'I have to settle this.'_ he told himself repeatedly as he moved closer and closer to America until he stood staring at his backside. He let his arm outstretch in determination to hold the American's attention. Though, unexpectedly, he found himself frozen halfway through, his hand stranded in midair. Why wasn't he moving, he pondered. He _wanted _to, of course he did. Perhaps one of the reasons squished inside his desire was because he simply urged to have contact with the man—but it was mainly to settle what had occurred between the two a few weeks ago. Yes, his proof of why he wanted it was there, so why did his body refuse?

Although he pondered on it endlessly, England truly did know why.

'_I don't want to see those eyes filled with such fear as they were that day.'_

Before he even thought about it, Britain knew why; for he had that same image lingering in his mind ever since that one morning. The image of his America shaking with fear for the brief, split second he had shared eye contact with America. Those eyes had struggled to appear strong and intimidating, but failed painfully. It seemed that as America noticed his failure, he hadn't a choice but to flee.

England could feel as fear bit him from the outside, before slowly spreading through every centimetre of his body as he stared at America's back. That fear, once reaching his arms, urged him to flinch away from the other. His foot lifted and fell back behind him—just seconds before he felt a boiling sensation hit his clothing and immediately sink across his chest.

Out of reflex, England simply exclaimed a startled, "Ah!" His eyes met with familiar cerulean ones that belonged to a certain American who was now a stuttering and apologising mess—shouting a short mix of "I'm sorry", "oh my god", and "dude" in roughly ten seconds.

The Englishman was too desperate to pry the now slightly weaker sensation from his skin to pay any attention to the very nation who had given him such heavy mental questioning. His fingers fumbled with his button-up shirt, dripping down one after the other before he was able to remove it fully. A warmth still resided near the area it had spilt on, but the air that let onto his chest seemed to have cooled him off.

"Oh my god! I'm so sorry, dude! Are you okay?" America asked frantically, offering England one of those fancy napkins that weren't often used to wipe food from one's mouth.

After mumbling a small thanks, he replied, "I'm fine—at least I am now." Oh look at that, he still had the courage to tease the other.

America rolled his eyes. "You _were_ standing behind me, so in a sense, it's your fault too."

England let a small frown of defeat tug at his lips, but nodded. "Yeah, I guess you're right."

In unison, the two turned to face each other before erupting into little chuckles.

"Okay, I guess it's _kinda_ funny." America said in between the chuckles.

"Kind _of._" England scolded, though it was dismissed by the other man due to the fact that their chain of laughter hadn't broken. The Englishman embraced the precious atmosphere they now held; he didn't want to let it slip away. If was as if the previous day had never happened—for America seemed to pay no mind to the fact that their lips were pressed together a few weeks ago. The light-hearted air they breathed in gave his tight chest a chance to loosen. Although he wished it would last for an eternity, soon the chuckles and smiles faded into the air tediously, before they were left in lonesome silence with nothing but the rhythm of their breaths comforting them.

"America," England said in hopes of gaining said man's attention.

The American noticeably tensed up at the solemn tone Britain now possessed, as if he knew what would be said. "Yeah?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

England dug his nails into the sides of his trousers in mental and emotional anguish. "About last night . . ." he trailed off, his emerald eyes settling on the floor as if searching for comfort.

"Yeah?"

The European nation could feel heat collecting on his face as he struggled to put words into sentences. But in the end, all he was able to utter out was, "I...I'm sorry. It . . ."

Unexpectedly, America completed his sentence for him. "It was an accident."

England's eyes floated back up, clashing with the familiar ocean-like nirvana hidden in the other's eyes. Although he kept silent, the expression he wore asked what exactly he meant.

"The kiss." America stated nonchalantly. "It was an accident, right?" He tilted his head innocently and smiled at England.

The Englishman let his mouth hang agape momentarily, pondering on what exactly to say. He was stuck at a crossroad. One road guided him to speak honestly—to let his heart spill out as it had yearned for decades upon decades. Despite the good that road would do him, it appeared dark and murky—with lonesome howls and agonising shrieks coming from it. The other, led him to keep the emotions bundled up in his chest inside. It wouldn't benefit him in the long run, but it seemed so comforting by the sounds of birds chirping happily and the sun smiling down at him. Oh how England wanted to go down that deadly yet beneficial road, but his fear got the best of him.

With his heartbeat traveling to his ears, and his breath shaken with freight, he gave his dreaded response. "Right." He lifted his heavy head a bit higher, simply to smile assuringly at the American. The grin made his lips sting mercilessly, but he kept doing it. But what hurt the most was the words that came from those lips, for he knew they were all lies—lies being fed to the only person he felt he should give the truth to.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Wow, i had some major writers block here. But then this idea popped into my head, and I just...yes.**

**"I remember there was actually a sexual thrill…you hear that little pop and pull their heads off and hold their heads up by the hair. Whipping their heads off, their body sitting there. That'd get me off."**

**~Edmund Kemper**

**"When this monster entered my brain I will never know, but it is here to stay. How does one cure himself? I can't stop it, the monster goes on and he hurts me as well as society. Maybe you can stop him. I can't."**

**~Dennis Rader, the BTK killer**

America didn't know what he was doing. Despite the fact that he had pondered on it the whole flight there, he still hadn't answered the question why he went to Scotland with a reason that wouldn't sound completely and utterly stupid. He was now ashamed of himself for asking Japan to help him find a magician. A freaking magician. Of course, he didn't drag the Asian nation across the ocean to look for his saviour. Even so, just asking the man if he knew anyone (besides England) who knew a thing or two about magic was pride-shattering and rather peculiar. America had easily caught the dark eyes growing wide and eyebrow that was raised at him before Japan gave him a friendly and completely fake smile.

"I, I believe Scotland-san has some experience in magic. I haven't spoken to him much, but England-san once told me that he and his brothers all are familiar with the subject."

Despite his pride falling from its high position and shattering on the floor, the American grinned brightly and patted—no, slapped—Japan on his back, causing the smaller man to edge forward at the force. "Thanks, bro!" America exclaimed before prancing out the door, leaving the baffled Japanese man to stare blankly.

That was how his "magical journey" began. Now, he was _almost _half way to completing it. He stared at the light green residence towering over him, glaring back at him like a street mutt prepared to sink its teeth into warm flesh. As much as he hated the idea of getting Scotland's assistance in his "journey", he felt he had no choice. He couldn't ask England for help. But... Come to think of it, he could've asked Wales or Ireland for their help. But it would be a waste of time to ride back to the airport and catch another flight. And thus, he was taking slow and tedious steps towards the door, giving the saying "take baby steps" a more literal meaning.

_'Only a few more steps and you're home free.' _the American told himself repeatedly. Just a little closer and—"Ah!" The door flew open. The strange part was that America hadn't been the one to open it. His eyes widened to the size of saucers when they met a pair of eyes a shade of emerald identical to a certain Englishman's. Above them floated bushy eyebrows, one of them raised up in confusion.

"Ya need somethin'? I could see ya standin' outside me window for awhile now." Scotland stated, the smell of whiskey lingering in his breath as he spoke.

"I need you to do some of those magic tricks on me." America stuffed his hands in his pockets and began playing with the loose bits of string residing inside.

"Hah? I thought ya wasn't into all that?" he asked with a hand skimming through his mop of recently showered auburn locks.

The American nation frowned, his bottom lip barely jutting out in a childish pout. "Who says? We've hardly talked to each other! For all you know, I could be _fascinated_ with this shit!" he said pridefully, wearing a cocky grin from ear to ear.

The exclamation only made the Scot glare down at America with suspicion. He leaned against the door frame, his gaze still sharp on the American's form. "I don't know what you're up to, but money talks." He held his hand out, as if waiting for said item to be in his palm.

America rolled his eyes. "Ha, I see you've learned my slang." he muttered. "Whatever, I don't got any Euros on me right now. I can get them to you later. How much?"

Scotland replied, "We'll see exactly how much once we finish this." With that, he entered his residence again, motioning America to follow. Shutting the door behind him, America did so. Only then did he really notice that the European's well-toned back decorated with obsidian black tattoos was exposed.

"You should really get dressed before greeting someone." America mocked.

"Well, I didn't know I'd be havin' company." Scotland retorted.

The American's mouth hung open momentarily in search of a comeback, but was soon closed when they approached a wooden door. When it opened, America didn't know what he was expecting. Paintings hung from the walls—a bureau as well as a bookshelf took up the space in the corners. Save for the few magical items that were found, the room seemed relatively...normal. What had he anticipated seeing—portals everywhere? Fairies and whatnot floating in the air?

"Over 'ere!" a Scottish accent called. America's eyes broke from their distant study of the room to meet the spot where the voice was sourced. There stood Scotland, an oversized book titled in Latin resting in his hands. "What are ya lookin' to be done?" he asked.

America stumbled over his words, before eventually getting them out. "Uh, time travel. I guess."

The Scotsman grunted, as if he wished to make a comment but decided against it. He skimmed through the pages until stopping. America strolled over to where he stood and glanced over his shoulder. Although he couldn't decipher the text, he still found interest in the pictures floating on the paper.

"'ere we are." Scotland mumbled to himself. "How far back do ya want to go?" he inquired.

"Three weeks. February 28." Shortly after America had told him, the Scot was speaking words in Latin effortlessly while he gazed in fascination. The speech stopped humming in his ears, and instead a ringing began bouncing off his eardrums. He turned towards the source of the ringing, and nearly jumped at the unexpected sensation of a blinding bright light creeping into his sight. He lifted his hand in an attempt to block the light setting fire to his cerulean orbs.

"I'm givin' ya three hours before I bring ya back, got it?" Scotland said in a stern tone.

"Y-Yeah." The American stumbled on his words slightly due to his still present shock.

The other rose a bushy eyebrow. "Then what're ya waitin' for? Go!"

America, with his hand still blocking the majority of his vision, did the only thing he could guess Scotland was ordering him to do. He moved towards the location of the light, hesitance in each step. He reached a finger out and watched as it sunk through the substance. His hand went in, then his arm, and then his body. And then his consciousness left with them.

**A/N: sHUT UP I KNOW I CANT WRITE SCOTTISH DIALOGUE.**

**Okay so I dunno when the next chapter is gonna be out. For me it seems like it's just whenever it happens.**


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